


Warm Like Home

by TheFoolsBangle (Meowth)



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Alfyn's confused, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama, Fix-It of Sorts, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Sickfic, Slow Burn, Therion's a potty mouth, because i don't know anything about anything, frankly disgusting abuse of semicolons, idk what to tag this, supposed to eventually be romance but it's not there yet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 15:14:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15754311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meowth/pseuds/TheFoolsBangle
Summary: A chance encounter on a rainy night changes Alfyn's life forever. Therion's journey would've ended there, if it hadn't been for him.Indulgent take on how the two might've met in Clearbrook.





	Warm Like Home

**Author's Note:**

> IDK what this is, I just really like these two and wanted to have them interact more/give them a proper, more involved meeting story. I started the game as Therion and went and recruited Alfyn right after, and I found it pretty hard to believe that a guy like Therion would just... join up and help Alfyn with his snake problem for no reason. But if he wanted to clear his own conscience and repay what he perceived as a debt, then maybe he'd be more likely to offer.
> 
> Anyway, I haven't finished the game yet, so this shouldn't contain much of any spoilers beyond Therion and Alfyn's respective Chapter Ones. Also contains some vague speculation about Therion's past, and might be a little OOC, but oh well, I tried. ; w ; )))
> 
> As with most of my stuff, I have no idea where I'm going with this or if I'll even continue it. But I hope y'all'll enjoy what I have nonetheless!!

He had nothing but his own carelessness to blame.

Sure, he’d been cursed with a spat of bad luck as well, and the unfamiliar weight of the fool’s bangle had slowed his movements just the slightest bit. But the men who’d done him in hadn’t been anything special, and Therion couldn’t forgive himself, couldn’t blame anything but his own ineptitude for landing him in this goddamn mess of a situation. It didn’t matter that he’d been outnumbered, and it didn’t matter that he’d been the last one standing, nearly a dozen corpses crumpled around him in the dust. All that mattered was that he’d been a beat too late in deflecting one of the brigand’s daggers, and that that dagger had been coated in something, some poison that Therion wasn’t familiar with.

The rain was freezing, and Therion shuddered as he stumbled through shadows between houses, not sure if it was from the cold or the toxin pumping through his bloodstream. He didn’t know where he was going, only that he had to get somewhere warm and dry if he was going to have any chance of surviving the night. Or perhaps on some base level, he was searching for help, though he didn’t know if he wanted to find it, hated the idea of relying on someone like the weakling he knew he was.

But he was going to die if he didn’t. He knew this, as loathe as he was to admit it.

And _dammit,_ he couldn’t die now—not when he’d only just begun his search for the dragonstones. The idea of someone finding his body in the mud with the fool’s bangle still tight around his wrist made his chest churn with disgust. He had that much pride, at least.

If he was going to die, then he was going to die. _But by the gods, not like this._

The gods had never given a damn about him though, and his vision swam dangerously as he walked, the world melting and spinning all around him. _Fuck,_ was all Therion could think then, as his right knee buckled underneath him. _Fuck!_

He dropped to his hands and knees, palms slipping dangerously through the thick, wet mud. He couldn’t think then, couldn’t hear anything over the roar of his own blood in his ears and the muted, rhythmic thudding of the rain against his skin. He tried to push himself back up, tried to get his feet back under him, but his body wouldn’t cooperate, and the ground was sliding sideways out from underneath him.

Then he was gone.

…

Later, when he let his mind wander too much, Alfyn would sometimes think about what would’ve happened if he hadn’t been late coming home that night.

If old Alek’s cough hadn’t persisted for just a little too long, prompting him to stay watching over the man just a little bit later than usual. And if he hadn’t noticed the dark lump on the ground near his cabin, small and utterly still, blending in too well with the grey mud underneath it. Really, Alfyn wasn’t sure what compelled him to stop that night. He wasn’t sure what it was about that lump that’d made him pause, and venture closer despite the pouring rain. Surely, he’d thought vaguely at the time, it was just a sack of something left behind, potatoes or some other goods that’d fallen off an unfortunate merchant’s carriage.

But looking back, he thanked every god he knew for making him stop and approach that would-be sack of potatoes. Because it’d turned out to not be a sack of potatoes at all.

It was a person.

A person collapsed unceremoniously in the mud, a person who Alfyn thought, at first, must surely be dead. Because he was just so _still;_ there wasn’t even the faintest flutter of eyelashes as Alfyn rushed over, dropping to his knees next to the man on instinct. Instinct to _help,_ instinct to do what he could, at least, to _try._

 _Oh gods,_ he thought then. _Oh gods. By the Eight, he isn’t breathing—_

He stopped that thought there though, as he touched two fingers to the man’s neck and felt the smallest, shuddering beat of a pulse. Alfyn took that beat and clung to it like a lifeline, like the precious thing it was, because gods above, it meant the man was _alive._

And if he was alive, he could still be saved.

As he gathered the stranger into his arms, felt the faintest tremor run through the body pressed against his chest, all Alfyn could think about was how badly he wanted this man he’d never met to survive.

…

Fire.

Therion dreamed of fire and ice, of staring into a window one day as a child and coveting the warmth burning within. It was snowing, and Therion didn’t have enough clothes; he shivered and sniffed pathetically as he stood there looking in at that warm, comfortable room, the fire flickering happily in a hearth against one wall. Oh, how he longed to be in there instead of out here, in the cold, lifeless winter.

But then there was a hand in his hair and a stern voice hissing at him, someone dragging him off into the darkness, and gods, _dammit,_ it hurt. Their grip was too tight and their pulling to fierce, and Therion bit down harshly on his lip to keep from crying, lest his tears soil the bandage fixed tightly over his left eye.

_Let me go. Please. Please let me go._

Gods, he was so pathetic. Back then, he hadn’t been able to do anything but beg.

But then the grip in his hair was gone. And the next thing he knew, he was inside that room from before, in the warmth, and the comfort, surrounded by a soft feeling he could only think felt like _home._ There was a different hand in his hair, far too soft and careful to be the same one as before, and Therion sighed softly as those fingers worked through tangled locks.

The touch was so gentle.

_Who…?_

…

“Who…?”

Alfyn started just a bit when he heard that faint, husky voice, that single word that slipped through chapped, too-pale lips. His eyes fluttered downwards, to the man currently occupying his bed. Fever-glazed eyes looked up at him, bleary and unfocused, and Alfyn knew then that the man wasn’t really awake, not truly, that he was somewhere between dreams and reality, somewhere he couldn’t be reached.

Still, he’d called out to him. And Alfyn answered after a moment, offering a gentle smile, hand still lingering where he’d been combing the dirt out of the stranger’s hair.

“I’m Alfyn,” he said, and moved his hand to rest the back of it against the man’s forehead. His fever was spiking dangerously, but Alfyn swallowed down his worry before it could show on his face. All he could do now was wait.

“That’ll do ‘er,” he offered quietly, as the man blinked sluggishly, fighting a losing battle to stay awake. “You’re going to be all right.

“Just rest now. Rest, and you’ll feel better.

“I ain’t gonna let you go dying on me now.”

…

When Therion finally regained true consciousness, it was to the skid of a chair against floorboards, and footsteps heavier than Therion was used to hearing. At first, he thought that surely, he had to be dead. Surely, he had to be dead, because the room was far too warm for a dungeon, and the bed he occupied far too soft. He wasn’t sure when the last time he’d slept in a bed this comfortable was. Probably several months ago, when he’d stopped in at one of his safehouses. But with everything that’d happened in Bolderfall, it felt like years—an entire lifetime ago, one that wasn’t his own.

A time before Heathcote, and Cordelia Ravus. Before the dragonstones, and the harsh edge of metal clamped around his wrist.

But he realized after a moment that he wasn’t dead, because his head, and his muscles—every inch of his body—ached something awful. Surely if he was dead, he wouldn’t be in this sort of pain…

_He knew that he wouldn’t be going to any sort of heaven anyway, and this bed was far too comfortable to be hell._

Very slowly, Therion opened his eyes.

To an unfamiliar ceiling and lights that were far too bright for comfort. He groaned softly, squeezing them shut again and turning his face into the pillow, trying to ignore the pain that pulsed in his temples. _Gods,_ what was wrong with him? He couldn’t… think properly, he…

_He’d messed up._

It came back to him suddenly; the fight with the bandits, the cut that’d nearly killed him, despite its small size. He could only recall flashes of stumbling into town; the bite of rain against his skin and his hands slipping gracelessly in the mud. And with those memories came the realization, too—the realization that he was in an unfamiliar place, a stranger’s house, weaponless, defenseless.

Somebody had _saved_ him?

_And they’ll demand something in return._

_No one does anything for free._

“Are you awake?”

The voice was low, but youthful, and by all accounts too friendly. Therion opened his eyes again, this time carefully, squinting slightly against the sunlight that filtered in through the window.

“Ah…”

The person speaking to him seemed to notice his discomfort, because before Therion could even muster a reply, he’d strode across the room to pull the curtains shut, dimming the light to a low glow. Therion exhaled in relief.

“Better?”

Therion didn’t respond right away, instead opting to just squint at the man as he walked back over to him, waiting impatiently for his eyes to adjust. Finally, they did, and he could make out the person’s features; young, as he’d guessed. Tall, with messy honey-colored hair pulled back into a small ponytail. His eyes were a warm amber color, and entirely too earnest as he smiled at Therion, teeth flashing in a crooked grin.

Therion disliked him instantly. He could see this man’s naivete written all over his face.

But still, he _had_ presumably saved his life, so the least he could do, Therion thought blandly, was dignify him with a response.

Therion grunted, and turned his face away from the man. Slowly—far too slowly—he managed to raise a hand to his face, pressing his thumb and forefinger to his temples for a moment as he tried to get his bearings. The fool’s bangle clinked slightly with the movement, adding insult to his already wounded state.

“… Where am I?” he managed after a long moment, in a voice too hoarse for his liking. He was already trying to devise a way to make a quick exit; he didn’t like this situation one bit. But he didn’t have enough information to risk just leaping up and running for it, and besides that, he didn’t think he’d be able to in his current state.

He hated it. Every fiber of his being was screaming his vulnerability to him, telling him to _get up, find a knife, stab this man in the chest before he can stab you in the back, you…_

The man took a seat in the chair by the bed, spinning it backwards so his forearms rested on its back arch. “My house,” he replied simply, leaning far too close to Therion for his comfort and staring intently at his features. “In the village of Clearbrook, to be exact. Found you passed out in the mud outside. Hoo boy, I thought you was a goner, for sure…”

He paused for a moment, until Therion looked at him again, patting his hair down in place over his left eye. _Something felt different about his hair…_

“How are you feeling?” the man prompted, brown eyes flickering over Therion’s features, searchingly.

Therion debated for a moment on how he wanted to answer the man; to be honest and admit to his weakness, or to feign healthiness so he could escape all that much sooner.

… Hell, who was he kidding? That wasn't much of a question at all.

“I’m fine,” he lied automatically, and then forced himself to try to sit up, arm trembling very slightly where he braced it against the bed. He managed it though, somehow, but paused when he realized, belatedly, that he wasn’t exactly… fully clothed. _What the_ fuck… The shirt that hung off him was just a bit too big for his frame, and while he was relieved beyond measure to realize that he at least still had his smallclothes on, he wasn’t wearing any pants to speak of.

The man was saying something to him, prompting him to lie back down, but Therion ignored him, opting instead to ask sharply; “Where are my clothes?”

His savior paused briefly, and then had the decency to look at least a little apologetic, worrying at his lip for a moment as he looked off to the side. “Well, they were right dirty considering the rain and everything…” Therion stared at him, flatly, until he continued. “I washed them, but I thought you’d be more comfortable without all them layers. And I…” He looked vaguely embarrassed. “I didn’t want to mess with dressin’ you and stuff too much…”

Therion didn’t reply for a long moment, irritation sparking and smoldering somewhere in the back of his mind. He knew it was misguided, though… He knew that the man had a point, and that he _ought_ to be grateful, and that if he wanted him dead, the guy would’ve just left him there in the dirt instead of going to such lengths to make sure he was treated, and warm, and comfortable, and…

_Therion recalled vaguely his dream—a hand running gently through his hair._

He coughed suddenly and looked away. “Ok,” he muttered. “Thanks… I guess. Can I have them back now?”

The man frowned a little and leaned back in his chair. He looked for a moment then as if he wanted to say something else, and Therion didn’t blame him, knew that he had every right. He brought a hand up to the low-hanging collar of his shirt, pulling the fabric closed, uncomfortably. He wasn’t used to being so… exposed.

“Sure,” the man said finally, and got up to retrieve a small bundle from the other side of the room. Therion followed him intently with his eyes, and noticed with some relief that most of his things were piled atop a dresser on the opposite wall.

 _This guy…_ He pressed his lips together. No, there was no way he’d just picked him up and treated him out of the goodness of his heart. People never did anything for free.

“Here.” The man handed him the bundle, and Therion took it, noting absently that they smelled a little… flowery. “You sure you’re all right to get up and… get dressed, then?”

The man was fidgeting and eyeing him with that concerned look again—one Therion decided he didn’t like. “… Yeah,” Therion said flatly in reply. He wasn’t an invalid, thank you very much… Though he made no move to push the covers back and get out of bed with the man still standing there, opting instead to just stare at him, warily.

Finally, the guy nodded and left the room, and Therion took a deep breath as an uncomfortable weight lifted itself from his chest. He needed to get out of here, he told himself. As soon as he possibly could.

…

So perhaps they’d gotten off to an awkward start, at best.

Alfyn sighed as he closed the door behind him, leaning his back against the wood and staring up at the ceiling for a moment as he turned the exchange with his patient over in his head. He wasn’t quite sure if he’d ever met someone quite so standoffish, or quite so ungrateful, for that matter, for his help. Granted, he certainly wasn’t an apothecary just to hear words of thanks and praise, and he hadn’t saved the man expecting much of anything in return. He was just… taken aback.

The single _‘thanks’_ uttered by the man had been curt, and forced, and in general, Alfyn had practically been able to _see_ him building up walls between them, brick by sharp-edged brick. Having now spoken to the man, Alfyn couldn’t help but wonder what sort of person he’d happened to save.

_Not that he regretted it, or would ever regret it._

_No one, in Alfyn’s book, deserved to die._

And still, despite his cold demeanor moments before, Alfyn couldn’t help but recall the man’s expression when he’d been half-awake and delirious due to his fever. He’d looked so… hurt then. And so lost, and as Alfyn had stroked his hair—merely because it was a downright _mess_ with all that mud caked in, mind you—he’d looked up at him with the vulnerability of a child, someone who wanted very badly to be taken care of. It was jarring, how starkly it contrasted with the man’s attitude when fully lucid, and Alfyn wondered vaguely if he remembered anything at all from his fever-induced delirium.

He wondered if the man had been dreaming then, or if he’d mistaken him for someone else. And he’d half expected him to utter a name in his haze—of a lover, perhaps, or to call out for his parents. But the man hadn’t; he’d only looked at him with those sad eyes, as if he couldn’t fathom someone caring for him like this.

Alfyn leaned his head back until it rested against the door and took a deep breath. All right, he told himself then. That was enough wondering, and enough sighing, and enough worrying about how poorly their first little exchange had gone. He was going to walk back into his bedroom with a smile in a moment, and introduce himself properly, and get the man to introduce himself in turn if it was the last thing he did.

He waited what he thought was a fair amount of time for one to get changed, and then turned and opened the door.

…

It wasn’t, as it turned out, enough time for the man to get changed, though it by all means should’ve been. As it was, the stranger was sitting on the bed with only his pants on, leaning over his knees with a hand pressed pale against his mouth. Something in his pose made Alfyn pause, and he blinked for a moment before realizing, suddenly, what was going on. _Ah… Shit._

He hurried to grab the waste bin from beside the door, bringing it to the man just in time for him to snatch it out of his hands and vomit into it, unceremoniously. Alfyn winced in sympathy, and a little bit of guilt at being unable to predict or prevent such a symptom. He’d identified the poison used on the man as one from the far south, one that’d been popular lately amongst bandits and thieves. He and Zeph had encountered it once before when one of the village’s hunting parties had gotten in a scrape.

It affected everyone differently though, and his guest, it would seem, was having a particularly bad reaction. Alfyn knit his brow, reaching his hand out towards the man to touch his shoulder, or perhaps rub his back. He stopped short though, hand hovering awkwardly in the air between them. No… Perhaps that was too familiar a gesture for someone like this.

So he let his hand fall back to his side, and averted his eyes awkwardly as the stranger emptied the contents of his stomach into the little, wooden bucket. To give him some semblance of privacy, Alfyn turned away, venturing to his desk, where several herbs and vials were strewn all about. He ought to have something that could help with the nausea…

Only when the man had seemingly finished did Alfyn turn towards him again. He was a pitiful sight then, to be sure; pale, and haggard looking, with a disgusted look on his face as he set the bucket aside, swiping at his mouth with the back of one hand. He glanced at Alfyn for a split second before tearing his eyes away, brow knit. Well, Alfyn couldn’t blame him for that.

“Here…” He ventured over to the man, holding out a small piece of ginger. “Eat this. Chew it slowly, and it should help a bit.”

The other looked at the root suspiciously for a moment. He almost seemed like he wasn’t going to accept it, his single visible eye bright and sharp with wariness. But after some debate, he finally bit his lip and nodded, taking the ginger and putting it mutely into his mouth. Alfyn gave him a moment to chew, taking the time to dispose of the bucket and its contents in the adjacent bathroom. When he returned, the man was pulling a slight face, frowning at the taste.

“… It’s strong,” he muttered, sounding vaguely betrayed.

Alfyn chuckled, sitting in the chair by the bed once again. “Yeah, but it’s the best thing for when your stomach’s messed up. Ma used to give it to me all the time when I was a kid…” He rubbed the back of his neck a bit, stopping himself there before he could go on too much of a tangent. Somehow, he didn’t think this guy particularly cared.

There was a moment of awkward silence between them then, and Alfyn couldn’t help the way his eyes wandered downwards, to the plethora of scars adorning the man’s bare chest. He’d seen them earlier, when he’d tended to the small, inflamed cut on his abdomen, but still, they were… somewhat hard to ignore.

Whoever this guy was, he wasn’t from Clearbrook, that was for sure. And he wasn’t just some country bumpkin, either…

Then again, the array of knives currently sitting atop his dresser had told Alfyn that much, at least. Those weren’t just any old hunting daggers.

Alfyn wondered suddenly then; Was this man dangerous?

“Did your _ma_ ever tell you it’s rude to stare?”

Alfyn’s eyes snapped upwards again, his cheeks coloring a little when he noticed the dark look on the stranger’s face. He fumbled to reply for a moment, as the man tugged his shirt on, hastily, deliberately covering the scars.

“S-Sorry. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it…” Alfyn bit his lip, giving the other a truly apologetic look. _Shit,_ he thought to himself vaguely, though. _There he went making things awkward again…_

The man just shrugged though, and let out a faint snort. “I’m sure you’ve seen worse,” he muttered nonchalantly. “You being an apothecary and all.”

Alfyn wondered briefly how the man knew of his profession, considering he hadn’t even introduced himself yet. But then, the pile of medicine on his desk was probably giveaway enough, and the stranger had likely seen other apothecaries in his time, considering all the wounds he’d apparently sustained. _Hopefully._

“I’m still only a beginner,” Alfyn said dismissively. “And to be honest, no, there ain’t many with scars like _yours_ around here.” He sat up a little straighter then, and put on one of his best smiles as he extended a hand to the other, hoping to divert the conversation elsewhere; he didn’t want to offend the man any more than he already had. “I’m Alfyn, by the way,” he said, and tilted his head slightly to one side. “You ain’t from around these parts, are you? Mr. uh…”

There was another long moment of silence as the man stared at him, his gaze sliding from the offered hand up to glare narrowly at Alfyn’s face. _Yeah. Real friendly, this guy was._ Finally the stranger sighed though, and slowly complied in taking Alfyn’s hand.

“Therion,” he said simply. “And no, I’m not. Don’t plan to hang around much longer either. So. Alfyn. Why don’t you just tell me how much I owe you, so you and I can both be on our merry way? Hm?”

There was something in his tone that made Alfyn’s brow knit—a bluntness that betrayed just how _little_ Therion trusted him, despite the fact he’d obviously saved his life. And what was this nonsense he was spouting about paying him? Obviously, Alfyn hadn’t saved him just to squeeze leaves out of him, and the apothecary couldn’t help but be a little offended at the idea. It took Alfyn a second to formulate a reply. “You… You don’t owe me anything. I’m not after your money, Mr. Therion.”

The man winced and cut in; “Just _Therion_ is fine.”

Which made Alfyn’s brow knit even further in confusion, but he set it aside for now. _Guess he doesn’t like fancy titles._ “And anyway, you’re in no shape to be goin’ anywhere today. You ought to rest for at least another day or so—to get that poison completely out of your system.”

Therion scowled at the prospect, shaking his head as he stood and moved over to the dresser.

“Wh—Hey…” Alfyn followed, concern flickering in his stomach. The guy had just been puking his guts up a minute ago, and Alfyn didn’t entirely trust him to be up and walking around on his own.

But if Therion felt light-headed or otherwise ill, he gave no indication. “I’m fine,” he muttered. “I’ve had worse.” He began looking through his things, organizing the many sheaths and satchels to go on his belt.

Alfyn sputtered faintly. “Pardon? Um, you almost died, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Therion shrugged. “Yeah. I fucked up.” He said it with just a hint of bitterness. “Wasn’t the first time, and likely won’t be the last. But good thing you showed up to bring me back from the dead, eh?” He finished sliding his knives into place and fastened the belt around his waist. His eye flickered back to Alfyn then, flat and unreadable, as he pulled open the larger of packs. “So. How much?”

“Huh?”

“How much do you want for saving my sorry ass? I don’t like being in people’s debt.”

There was that bluntness again. Alfyn could detect a hint of self-loathing in his voice, as well. He frowned, deeply, and held up his hands in a defensive gesture. “I told you, I don’t want your money. I don’t charge anybody for my services, much less someone who needed ‘em as bad as you.”

That just served to make the man angrier though, and Alfyn felt a chill run down his back at the dark look that passed over Therion’s face. He looked for a moment then as if he was going to snap at him, but then Therion just let out a sigh, and clicked his tongue against his teeth. _“Damn,_ you goody two-shoes types are annoying,” he growled, lowly. “Fine. Have it your way.” He pulled the drawstring of his pack shut roughly, slinging the bag over his shoulder in one swift motion.

“Thanks for saving me then,” he muttered. “And for washing all my shit.” Gathering the rest of his things up in one arm, Therion turned towards the door.

Alfyn’s mind started racing then, a dozen protests coming to his lips, because _no way,_ what was this man _thinking,_ heading out when he’d only barely recovered. “Therion!” He called out to the other without thinking, starting after him. “Wait—”

But the stranger didn’t wait, and as the door swung shut behind him, Alfyn was left with nothing but his name, lingering heavy on his lips;

_Therion._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! ; w ; )))/ I hope to write more of this soon!!


End file.
